


precipice

by insistentbass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:45:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The breeze is warm and the grass is thick and lush beneath John's outstretched legs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	precipice

The breeze is warm and the grass is thick and lush beneath John’s outstretched legs.

“Are you ever going to take that damn coat off?”

He asks, because _really,_  it’s bordering twenty-five degrees out and how can anyone wear their own weight in wool on a day like this? Sherlock’s delicately arched eyebrow says that he certainly can, and will continue to do so without even breaking a sweat.

“Aren’t you melting in that? Seriously?”

The blades of untrimmed grass tickle the back of John's calves and he sighs, content. He can feel Sherlock sitting rigid next to him (it had been enough effort to get him to sit on the grass in the first place - “ _No blanket?_ ”) and a smile tugs at his lips. Sherlock ignores him and continues to stare out across Regents Park. John can see his mind racing in some unknown direction and hopes it finds a destination soon. He crosses his arms behind his head and falls on his back, succumbing to the temptation of the sun-warmed ground. 

John thinks, _I could be here forever_ , and it is a stark realisation of pure happiness that fills his stomach and throat. He thinks of the few moments they have had like these; where Sherlock is still thinking, _intensely_ so, but is calm and reasonable enough to allow John to relax and breathe and just bask in his company. They are few and far between, but glorious all the same.

A familiar jingle floats through the air and John’s ears perk up. He wonders, for a moment, whether he’s about to push his luck, but thinks _sod it_ and jumps to his feet.

When he comes back several minutes later clutching two quickly disintegrating ice cream cones, Sherlock’s gaze is still fixed ahead, though his scarf has been abandoned on the grass where John had lain. It’s a small victory. He clears his throat to announce his presence, and pushes the cone defiantly in front of Sherlock’s face.

“I don’t do ice cream.” Sherlock states, his nose wrinkling in a manner that says _John I will shoot you if you make me eat that hideous thing_. He tries his luck anyway, and forces it into Sherlock’s hands, that are mildly sweaty - John smirks.

“Look if you’re not going to take your coat off then you need something to cool your body temperature or you’ll burn up.” He takes a swipe of ice cream with his tongue and smiles, in an effort to prove to the man it’s not poisonous. “Doctor’s orders, Sherlock.”

The internal battle in the detective’s head is fascinating to watch. He sees Sherlock’s eyes roaming over the ice cream, trying to construct a valid and overly clever reason not to partake in the eating of it. John rolls his lips together to contain the laugh rumbling in the pit of his stomach, and instead concentrates on his own cone, taking several licks of it and feeling, for some peaceful moments, like a child again.

One thing becomes apparent when Sherlock finally gives into the ice cream - he has never eaten one before.

John vaguely feels a bead of melted cream trickling down his hand as he observes the other man, mouth slightly agape at the complete mess he’s making. Sherlock looks annoyed and frustrated and like he wants to murder everyone within a five mile radius. The ice cream is battling desperately to get away from him in the heavy sun and John feels something violently twist his gut as Sherlock’s tongue darts out to catch a glistening drip of it hanging on the precipice of the cone.

“Okay, _okay._ It was a bad idea.” He admits, as Sherlock’s mouth twists in disgust and he lobs the offending snack at the bin a metre or so away. Perfect shot.

“Your attempts at including me in ordinary activities are getting decidedly worse, John.”

There’s a ghost of a smile on his face though, and the evidence of the disowned ice cream on his lips. John feels slightly sick and his own cone has given up, so it follows the others journey to the bin and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Really, honesty, he does try not to look at the cream blatantly sitting wet and distracting on Sherlock’s bottom lip. He tries to focus his gaze on something else. He does, desperately so, but fails, naturally so.

“Jesus, Sherlock _will you_ \- Just. Um. Wipe your mouth.”

John knows there is a curious narrowing of eyebrows aimed in his direction but he ignores it, along with the sound of his friend’s mind whirring loud beside him. 

He can practically taste Sherlock’s smirk. ~~Wants to~~.

“Wipe it for me."

That’s an invitation if John’s ever heard one, and it takes every ounce of strength he has not to take it.

“ _Child_ ” John says, but his voice shakes and he swallows audibly. He grabs Sherlock’s coat sleeved arm and, despite a cry of protest, drags it rough across his offending mouth.

The indignation in Sherlock’s widened eyes reassures John that the tracks they had been travelling along have ended, abruptly, with the soiling of his coat. He is thankful.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, instead he huffs and folds his arms and narrows his eyes and huffs again until John looks at him. He can see the unmistakeable beginnings of another infamous strop coming on. Honestly, he wonders if the man has always been like this, or if he does it just because he knows John will take it. He does his best to ignore the tantrum and purses his lips together, raises his chin defiantly.

Then, in one swift movement, Sherlock takes the coat off and throws it in a violent, dramatic heap between them. The whoosh of air as it settles on the grass blows Sherlock’s curls off his forehead, and John knows he is losing this one. _Again._

Resigning, he lets himself fall back against the ground again. When Sherlock follows his movement, he blinks and turns his head. The man looks almost ethereal against the cushion of grass, his eyelashes lowered to the sun shining golden over his pale skin, and for few moments he forgets that this is Sherlock Holmes, the Reichenbach Hero, and thinks, _this is Sherlock._

Just, Sherlock.

“Thank you for the ice cream.” Sherlock says, low and secret and John can’t answer him.

The tendrils of remaining sun shadow across John’s eyes and he closes them, lets everything sweep over him in the breeze and the breath of the man next to him. He thinks, maybe one day, this will be all there is. Just them. It settles his mind and quells, for a time, the rage of doubt and questions of their life expectancy that constantly ache through him.

“Next time, try eating it instead of _wearing_ it.”

They both smile and laugh until the sun sinks behind the trees.


End file.
